Burn
by Dragonfire Alchemist
Summary: In which Mustang somehow manages to tick off an influential witch hunter and Edward is the only thing preventing the man from getting the tables turned on him by getting burned at the stake. (No spoiler oneshot; might be an AU, or it might not be. Non-yaoi)


**This one... Is a product of my exhaustion. And it's based off of a scene in one of my favorite book series, The Last Apprentice/The Spook's Apprentice (the latter name for anyone who doesn't live in America, I believe). Anyways, it's open to your interpretation. Hope you enjoy!**

The stifling darkness of the hilltop was only pierced by the light of torches and the moon, the normally quiet place filled with the raucous chatter of a crowd. Edward has his hood pulled up, a sense of dread pervading his mind and only getting stronger with every passing minute that he waits. He's hiding in the shadows of the growing flood of people, vaguely wondering if he's the only one here not filled with bloodlust.

It's about then that the thought fully occurred to him: these people were here for a show.

They would cheer as his superior burned at the stake. Laugh at his screams of agony. Watch intently as flesh burned and bone cracked from the heat, and…

He has to force himself to stop thinking, lest he wind up doing something he would (maybe) regret later.

The crowd's clamor suddenly dies down, making his head dart up in anxious worry. He could see the torchlights moving slowly up the hill in a line: the witch procession. It's mainly composed of women-most are old, but some are, he guesses, only in their twenties.-but there are a few men scattered amongst the ranks. As his eyes scan over them all, he can't help but panic; Mustang is nowhere in sight. Had he been wrong? Had they executed him already?

But then his eye catches on two tall, bulky men dragging a slumped figure between them. The man had no shirt, exposing pale, nearly translucent skin slathered with dried blood and his hair was raven-black; Edward knew that haircut well enough, knew the muscular frame, but it was the eyes that really hit it home. The normally sharp shards of obsidian are dull and uncomprehending, paled and worn with pain. Ed's subconscious immediately darts to what it already knows; people suspected to be witches or warlocks were often tortured in order to force a confession out of them. From the mottled bruising splashed all over Mustang's torso, he could make an educated guess as to what method the captors had used: the press. It was a cruel test in which heavy stones were laid, one at a time, on the suspect's body. The man or woman had to confess to being a servant of the Devil in order to have the weights removed, or they would be crushed by the pressure. After about seven stones, the poor soul often died of internal bleeding, the organs rupturing and ribs breaking.

However, from all the dried blood and still-weeping gashes on the man's body, it was clear that they had (before or after the confession, he didn't know) tortured him like a cat toys with its prey before it makes the kill.

Some of the 'witches' and 'warlocks' cry as they were tied to the stakes, others simply moan and pray for salvation. Mustang doesn't make a sound when they tie him up, looking very much like a ragdoll in the way he lets the Quisitor's men drag him around. It makes a broken sort of feeling push its way into Ed's heart, hardly able to bear the sight of the usually strong, capable leader reduced to such a feeble and helpless state-it wasn't natural. Mustang was powerful and demanding (a royal pain in the ass, in Ed's mind). But now…

Edward firmly clenches his fists. For now, he has to focus on saving these innocent people from their executioners. Any minute now and the distraction would be ready. Unfortunately, the minutes were creeping along at a snail's pace, making him more and more uneasy.

"My dear people!" The Quisitor's voice booms, instantly silencing the crowd. "We are gathered here today to witness the purging of sins from these poor, tainted men and women!"

The cheer that raises up from the eager crowd is enough to make Ed sick, if he wasn't already.

"In a trial of fire and pain, they will be stripped free of all sin, becoming pure, cleansed souls as they return to our Lord! Even through their suffering, we shall pray for them, that they are accepted into a restful afterlife…"

And so the man continues, each word causing Ed to bristle even more. The Quisitor was no holy man; he was a sadistic bastard. He was the man who always forced confessions from so-called 'practitioners of the dark', gleefully watching them suffer. Ed had even heard rumors that the Quisitor would meticulously position each log for the fire in such a way that it would cause the absolute most agony for the victim.

And since Roy Mustang had scorned him, he had claimed that the colonel's control over fire was a gift from the Devil himself, a gift only a dedicated worshipper of the darkness could possibly gain. No one had dared question it.

Lost in his grim thoughts, Ed almost doesn't notice that the Quisitor's speech is over, but is forced back into awareness when the crowd lets out a cacophonous uproar. The Quisitor is holding his torch high, moving steadily towards the one he wants to burn the most: Mustang. Although acting composed, the bloodthirsty gleam shines bright in his beady eyes as he advances towards the bound, near-lifeless colonel. Edward shifts, watching in horror. Shouldn't the others be distracting the crowd by now?

As though hearing his silent, desperate plea, gunshots suddenly pepper the hillside from afar. They don't hit anyone, but with the amounts of shots fired and how they're strategically placed, he knows in a heartbeat that it's the lieutenant, the only one who could have that kind of control and mastery over the course of the bullets. His heart soars as the crowd scatters, screaming in fear. Ah, karma was a beautiful thing.

But then, as fast as his hopes were lifted, they froze and fell to the ground, shattering horribly.

The Quisitor wasn't running away. If anything, the turmoil made him enraged as he quickly approached Mustang, leaning down-

Ed breaks into a full-on sprint, eyes wide in his blind panic.

And in a flash, the fire is blazing up, crackling around the colonel. Instead of being the commander of the flames-going unharmed in their wake-the flames were now greedily rushing to consume the man alive.

Edward lets out a terrified cry, blindly shoving the Quisitor out of the way and running head-on into the mass of burning logs. He had to get the colonel free before it was too late, no matter the cost.

As he quickly fumbles at the rope, stabbing at it and sawing at it with his knife, he can feel the fire attacking him, burning his skin harshly as if enraged that he would dare try to steal their dinner. The whole time, Mustang only stares numbly ahead, seemingly not noticing the threatening heat nor the desperate struggle of his subordinate to save him.

It seems to take hours (really only a few minutes) before Ed finally catches his superior's limp body, gasping under the sudden weight forced on him. As soon as he possibly can, he drags both Mustang and himself from the clutches of the raging flames, barely managing the dead weight of a grown man.

He pants, slumping to the cool grass with Mustang, laying the man down on his back. Ed can feel the burns crying out in agony, feel the charred flesh rub uncomfortably against the softer, more natural skin. Then his eyes dart to Mustang; still broken.

But at least he wasn't burned too badly, and they could take Mustang to get treated at a hospital to remove the physical aspects of the torture from his body.

Now that he (drunkenly) thought of it, he would probably need just as much medical attention. What a pain…

Lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't even recognize the warm, murky darkness as it tenderly pulls him under, his weary head hitting the ground.

**Please review, if you have the time! Each one always means a lot to me!**

_**~Dfire**_


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